Voting Day
by Japanese Butterfly
Summary: Scotland's voting is a tough situation for everyone involved. A fever isn't even the worst of Scotland's problems when it comes to a worried Frenchman, an annoying American, and a unstable Englishman. Posted due to the fact there is few stories on what the results were, and Scotland needs more love. Now with second chapter, what if Scotland had left the United Kingdom?
1. Chapter 1

"His fever is rising, are you sure he'll be okay?"

He recognizes that voice—one of a past lover; it must be the noise belonging to the one above him, cool palm resting on his forehead in worry before thin fingers run through his hair, brushing sweat-weighed strands out of his face.

"He'll be fine. Every nation is like this during an election—even _America_ gets bed-ridden during the presidential election, and you should know that, France."

Its England talking, making Scotland wonder where Wales and Northern Ireland are… They were here earlier, unless it was just another fever-induced hallucination.

"Oui, oui, I know, Mon cher. It isn't that nations don't get like this, it's just I have never seen Écosse like this. He just looks so…"

"Weak?" England finished. "Yes, Scotland has always tried to appear stronger than most. But this is proof he's just like the rest of us."

_He isn't invincible. _

A groan escapes Scotland before he can hold it in and the cold fingers, most likely Francis' fingers, stop moving, frozen, as his bleary green eyes blink. He's unable to focus on the dark blue and green outfits of his younger brother, and his_ brother's_ lover: France was a thing of the past; the Auld Alliance, something used to tease England about regarding his lover's past and nothing more to him, as the feelings had disappeared.

"Why the hell can't I see correctly?" the Scotsman complained "Northern Ireland better not have drugged my tea again."

Though he remembered drinking tea from Ireland, he knew the truth. His "fever" was worse than what it had been diagnosed as—it was turning into a migraine—and worse, his vision was affected as well.

"Your people have been voting all day," England assured, "even _I_ know it's not because Ireland drugged your tea, anyways you have to get up! Gentlemen don't stay in bed and whine all day just because of a measly election."

It wasn't just a "measly election," it was _THE_ election; one determining Scotland's fate, the _whole_ United Kingdom hanging in the balance—would Scotland leave his younger brother's tight grip, or would he stay? The polls were close, and even Scotland knew England, behind his gentlemanly exterior, was internally worried that Scotland would leave.

"Oi, if I hear you be talking 'bout your gentleman shit anymore I'll shove your electric guitar down your throat. I know that the idea of _you_ as a "gentleman" is full of-"

A light slap on his shoulder stopped him and he blinked his eyes in the dark green blur's direction.

"Shut it, please. I'm worried, everyone is. Even though a lot is happening—No, because a lot is happening with _you,_ we need you at the Summit Meeting today."

Scotland groaned. "Yeah, yeah just give me a sec'…" He closes his eyes, shifting so his body sinks into the mattress, ready to take a nap.

A yank on the sheets, forcing him to tumble to the floor, gives him a different idea.

Scotland stumbles, leaning heavily on France, trying to give his brother less of the weight so that it _seems _like he can hold his own. The meds Scotland took don't help much, and he's too delirious to be of use to anyone… but he still moves on his way to the conference.

"We're almost there," one of them says, and he smirks.

They're not anywhere near there; even though they're at the building's entrance, ten flights of stairs are between them and the wooden doors of the Summit Meeting.

"There better be an elevator, England…" Scotland says warily.

There isn't an elevator. It broke because of Prussia and America's attempts to play a practical joke on England, that worked, but Prussia and America are still in trouble for it.

They enter the building, turning to the stairs as Scotland, already worn-out, looks at England: "I'm not climbin' all those steps 'less I'm hammered."

Scotland was at his limits, he wasn't a lad anymore, able to go on with infinite energy. England could only sigh at Scotland's refusal.

"Well, you're not walking up those steps. I've hired some ignorant gits to carry you."

Scotland shouldn't have been surprised. England must have had this planned from the start; it was exactly like his brother to have _everything_ planned, down to which cab they would take to the building.

Before the Scotsman can even protest, he's grabbed under the arms and lifted up while a flash of silver darts to his feet, pulling them up so in the end Prussia and some other "ignorant git" are carrying him up the stairs. Scotland squirms, trying to shake off the hands that keep him from falling onto the concrete steps.

"Sorry, dude, Iggy ordered us to do this, so please don't make us drop you! I don't wanna get 'im more upset."

Scotland Stops his struggling, just to glare up at sapphire eyes and mutter in Gaelic, knowing America and Prussia can't understand as he curses their and England's very beings.

Most of his voters during this time were voting for leaving the U.K.

On the tenth floor I was finally set down, facing the Meeting Room doors. America hugged me, squeezing me tightly, compared to most hugs, but it wasn't bone-crushing like many had described. …Bunch of pansies, they were…

"Good luck, Uncle Scottie."

He and Prussia left after that, leaving me alone on the floor, glaring at the stairs my brother was most likely climbing; as his messy blonde head appeared, my glare intensified. When England looked up, he winced, knowing I wasn't exactly pleased with his idea of transporting his older brother up the stairs. The next second, his eyes blinked, surprised as my lips twitched and slowly turned into a smile. Low chuckles escaped me and they continued to grow into a roar of laughter, England and France quietly joining in, not really knowing why we were laughing.

Like always with laughter, it died, but my smile was permanent, staying, as I held my hand out for England's.

"C'mon, they 'aven't got all day to wait fer us!"

We open the wooden doors together, France trailing behind and I greeted many nations as the Summit Meeting turns out to be more like a party, with ideal chat and catching up. The only thing missing is dancing, but the atmosphere is too tense; the United Kingdom's future is hanging in a delicate balance.

"The final votes are in!"

It doesn't matter who said it, or how excitedly it was said, the whole room freezes. Eyes turn to my ginger head and England's choppy blonde one. England knows I already know my peoples' answer, he just doesn't know what the answer is. For once, I hold all the power.

"It…" I catch my composure, "it was close."

It is my duty to announce the decision long before the counting has begun. It's unexplainable how I know, it's a gut thing that first occurred when my people first voted, who knows how long ago. I know my answer. Just like America knew his next president, and England could tell who the next prime minister would be long before even the Queen would find out.

…I turn to England, head lowered to work on turning my face into a more passive and neutral expression.

"I'm sorry, brother, but for centuries I, along with Wales and Northern Ireland have followed you… always in your shadow. Every decision I have made during those centuries couldn't change the fact that your decision was final. The one thing I can claim I know for certain is my people's desire for independence, and I won't just ignore them."  
>I look up and England's trembling, and his eyes start to water as he waits for the final blow: to lose another in the name of "Independence;" to lose his older brother, a constant in his life.<p>

I walk to him, placing my right hand on his shoulder, smirking, changing lines he heard long ago to have a more positive outlook.

"From now on, consider me dependent!"

My words echo a younger lads, but without the 'in' the meaning completely changes. I'm not making the same mistake as that lad.

"For Scotland, England, Wales, and Northern Ireland united are a force, a force that once was an empire, and my force will continue to add to yours, little brother. I will stay by your side."

The next thing I know the wee lad I had watched since his beginning is attached to me, trying to see if I'm lying or not.

"You're joking!"

Always a disbeliever, my brother… My arms hold him, protecting him from the looks the other nations give him.

"Nae, I'm serious; as long as you have whiskey for me to drink, I'm staying!"

…Whiskey is serious business.

Forever in time,

Through this rhyme

Remember the one

In rain, holding battered gun

Watching with cold green eyes

As empire falls to its demise

For he is the one

With rum-filled blood

That stayed.


	2. Chapter 2

"Consider me independent!"

England's face falls, and he lowers his head, but I can't take what I said back.

I envelope him in a hug, hoping to get the message I'm about to say across to my stubborn little brother.

"I love you, lad. Don't you ever forget that."

I walk off after that only to be blockaded at the wooden doors of the meeting room.

"Dude, you can't leave him like that."

"Oui, I know you better than that, mon cher. This isn't like you, to leave him. I know last time I encouraged it, but now-"

My eyes darken and I glare at the both of them.

"Shut. Up."

I glance at America first, "You're just a lil' brat, aren't ya? I can leave him."

I pause on my words; do I want to let my feelings out for them to see? I can't break that image of the burly strong emotionless man they've set for me. But I need them to realize _their _importance. What they can do for Albion.

"I can leave him because he has you and the Frog."

France growls and loud steps jerk me out of what I'm saying to America, as he tugs me around to say something:

"Seriously Scotland, how can't you see this? He needs you! What place is more important than one by his side?" France's eyes are a cold blue, and as I see myself reflected in them I wonder why he doesn''t understand my reasons for leaving., do I even know my reasons? "Did you not see Amerique make the same mistake you're making?"

"M-my people's side…"

It's more of a question than an answer because I don't know. My people aren't my family—the ones I've been with for centuries—but their will tugs at my heart, pulling me further from England.

Francis stops after that, he takes a deep breath and looks at me, and I remember laughing drunkenly with him, right after we signed the alliance.

"You still care about him, don't you?"

The question he asked me that night, somehow he words it exactly the same as he did that night and my heart twists because it should be obvious; how I broke off the alliance, how I stood for too long by his side, and how I kissed away his tears and cursed at all the fae and magical entities when America yelled the words I had just said to my brother.

"The answer hasn't changed, no matter how many centuries go by …ya know that France." I turn to walk away, but he grabs my wrist, nails sinking into my skin.

"Then you can't just leave him! You-"

"I can do _nothing_ now. I'm passing that job to you."

I easily tug my wrist out of his grip, leaving.

_Before the Entente Cordiale_

England and I are drinking tea together, at least that's what he believes (mixed into my drink is scotch I poured into the tea when he went to get his scones.) My haggis tastes better, but France still refuses to eat both.

"I listened to your suggestion, to ally ourselves with France."

He leaves out the fact Russia will also be part of it, but when I look up to see the wee lad's face a faint red, it probably was because he forgot about him.

"Do- do you still love him, Alba?"

I take a sip of my 'tea', rolling my eyes at my brother.

"The real question is do ya love him? I had my chance, Albion …but I'm done with love."

I couldn't say that. To me, family always came first and I saw how England looked at the Frog. I also couldn't say that my love for him had dispersed over the years… I didn't _want_ to love; I saw what it had done to me, to England, and countless others. I preferred just drinking at a nice pub with my mates. It was better that way.

"Why should I answer that, Scotland?"

The wee lad was getting cocky, eyebrows raised in question, but I let it pass. I had too much to deal with to worry over my brother's attitude.

"Ya don't hav' ta. I already know."

England laughs then, and I relish it. During World War I, I was certain I'd never hear that laugh again, and I still can't imagine a world without my brother.

"Like I know you're pouring scotch into your tea." I freeze while he scoffs, "alcoholic…"

_After the Meeting _

I enter my house, shaky legs allowing myself to collapse onto my living room couch. I hate election days, my temperature spikes as my government changes and politician views change my personality slightly.

"I'm- I'm leaving him. I'm finally independent."

I laugh softly, because I can't cry, won't cry. Not even with the knowledge that my brother most likely hates me.

"Alba, Albaaa, what's wrong?"

I glance up; it's Ireland, probably here believing that I'd be ready to celebrate my leave from the United Kingdom.

"Ire, can you help me? I need my whiskey…"

A couple cabinets open and I hear Ireland shuffling around. "Ummm, there isn't any…"

"Shit."

I groan, and the weight shifts on the couch, Ireland sitting on it with me. "How bad do you feel?"

I look at him, his unruly orange hair barely brushing his shoulders as he leans down, glancing at me with olive-green eyes.

"I mean shouldn't you be celebrating? You just became free of the stick in the mud, ya know?"

I roll my eyes "There ain't any whiskey for me ta' drink."

Ireland wouldn't understand my views on all of this; he hated England, while I still cared too deeply.

"There are pubs for a reason: to celebrate leaving assholes."

My eyes snap open, Ireland grating on my nerves too much for my liking.

"Get out, Ireland."

Ireland hisses, as if he'd just been stung, unaffected when I growl in retaliation.

"You still can't take it when someone insults the jerk. You're too sensitive, Alba. Aren't you the one who taught me to act like a man, and not the girl? You definitely are under that 'tough guy' act."

"I said GET OUT!"

Ireland smirks "Make me."

I pounce then, and we're wrestling, biting, punching, kicking, and the next thing I know is we've managed to get to my front door. Ireland grabs at my hair, pulling me outside and my head hits the side of the house.

It takes a couple seconds to recuperate and by then I'm drowning and inwardly cursing Wales for suggesting I install a fish pond in my front yard.

My heads yanked back and I cough up water, while elbowing Ireland in the gut, forcing him to release his grip on my hair.

I turn pushing Ireland, hitting his back on the house's wall, spitting in his face.

"WHOA!"

My collar's tugged on, and I choke, stumbling backwards. I see France restraining Ireland, as America restrains me from behind.

"Dude, what the hell? Why are you fighting Uncle Ireland?"

"'Cause your Uncle Scottie's being sensitive."

I laugh, as Ireland acts smug, not realizing he's being held back by a weak Frenchman.

It took a superpower to hold _me_ back.

Footsteps bring all of us to hush and I watch as Ireland's face pales, losing his cockiness for pure fear. Only one can create that face on Ireland, one he avoids like the plague itself, England.

"He doesn't seem sensitive to me, leaving without giving me a chance to speak to him seems pretty insensitive. …But then you're just the same, Northern Ireland. How long has it been since I saw you last?"

England stands between us, eyeing us as he manages to get a wince out of us both. Then he turns to me, studying me with dimmed emerald eyes.

"I- …I think I understand it this time, Alba. You aren't the only one I've had to recognize as independent, but it doesn't make it any easier. It's not like I cared, but it seems like now you're leaving the U.K."

I chuckle and grin, "Exactly, Albion: I'm leaving the _Union,_ I'm not leaving ya_._"

_1 year later_

"SCOTLAND!"

I glance up from my spot next to the fireplace in my house, where I had been reading. Nothing very serious, but it was better than doing paperwork.

Angered feet stomped though my house, and I was soon faced with my angry brother.

"What did you do?!"

He points to his eyebrows, glaring as I blankly stare for a couple seconds, before bursting into a loud laugh.

"H-how'd ya do _that?!_"

England's eyes widen, his _purple_ eyebrows rising, making me laugh harder at my red-faced brother,who was getting madder every second.

"I thought _you _could explain!"

I honestly don't know the reason for my little brother's purple eyebrows, but I stand up and take his hand; we're heading to the basement.

"Nae, but it doesn't mean I can't fix it."

A couple minutes later I've created something nasty with the consistency of mayonnaise.

"Okay, hold still."

Grabbing England's face I start to put the greasy concoction I've created on his eyebrows, trying to change his eyebrows back to normal.

"Now let that sit for a bit, or your eyebrows will be a light purple color 'stead of, …well, whatever color eyebrows are."

England groans "I hate waiting, but…thanks. I would of done it myself, but—"

"It's a good thing you didn't; with your skills you'd turn your 'brows rainbow." We both chuckle, and I realize, that even after so long free of the United Kingdom, nothing has really changed…


End file.
